


what will it be, my love?

by orphan_account



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Party, Christmas Presents, Early Queen (Band), Love Letters, M/M, Secret Santa, he's just mentioned, tim isnt... there per se
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:40:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21965842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: in which brian expresses his feelings to roger in a love letter for christmas.
Relationships: Brian May/Roger Taylor, John Deacon/Freddie Mercury
Comments: 7
Kudos: 37





	what will it be, my love?

**Author's Note:**

> i rushed the ending to get this out before the end of the holiday, so im sorry if theres a noticeable decline in quality  
> enjoy !

_My dearest Roger._

No, that’s too formal. Too clingy.

_Dear Roger._

That’s better.

_Dear Roger,_

_I love you._

That’s too straightforward. 

Come on, Brian, _think!_

Brian lets out a groan of frustration and throws his pen down onto his desk, tangling his hands in his hair as he leans back in his chair. Bitten nails begin to scrunch and scrape at his scalp in an attempt to refocus himself at the task at hand. After a moment of rubbing lazy circles into his head, he finds himself composed enough to give this letter another go. 

He takes a deep breath, pulls out a fresh sheet of paper, and begins to write.

_Dear Roger,_

_Where do I even begin with this? It’s a bit odd, considering I always have something witty to say, but now, I cannot even write out a simple sentence without scrutinizing every single stroke of my pen. There is so much to say, but hardly enough words to say any of it, and not enough prowess in my mind to phrase it— but I'll try._

_I can still remember the day we met. Tim and I were just about done trying to find a drummer for Smile and go back to the bulletin boards of Imperial to take down all of our piss-poor attempts at flyers. Half of the blokes who sauntered in through those doors sounded like cavemen banging on random objects with clubs, and half of them even looked the part. Tim said something like, "if nobody else shows up in the next fifteen minutes, I think it's time to call it quits". I agreed._

_You walked in right when we were going to start packing up our guitars with the cockiest smile on your face. There was an air of… something surrounding you the moment you walked into the jazz room that set you apart from the others. "My name is Roger Taylor, and I'm honoured to have been accepted into the band," you had said with mock formality, eyes staring straight at me and my overly-dressy attire. Tim and I exchanged a look. You were… certainly different._

_You were especially different from the rest the moment you started to tune the drums. You gave me that one look you always give me when I've said something stupid after I asked what you were doing. "What does it look like I'm doing? I'm tuning the drums," you said as if it was common knowledge. It wasn't— or at least, not to me. You glanced over at Red and scoffed. “Typical guitarist! You aren't the only musician who has an instrument that needs tuning, mate.”_

_I think that’s when I knew._

_This feeling only grew when we kept meeting up for band practices and gigs. It continued to grow when we finally began to spend time together outside of band activities, from going to bars and watching movies at the flat I shared with Tim at the time. It continued to grow when Tim eventually left us for Humpy Bong (“What kind of band name is that? The bastard is practically begging to be laughed at!” you said. I agree, by the way; also, I heard they disbanded quicker than Smile!) and you took over his space in the flat._

_Believe it or not, it’s still a growing feeling._

_Being able to spend so much time with you, and furthermore, being able to be friends with you has made me realize so much about myself and the world. You’ve made me learn to open up to more people and socialize more. I’ve learned to be more confident in myself and my abilities, and I now know how to manage my hair without damaging it. I’ve learned the names of just about every dentist tool and bones in the human body from nights spent studying with you. I don’t know how any of that information will help me any more than being able to calculate the speed and trajectory of a celestial body, but I’m still quite grateful to have learned it all from you._

Brian balances his pen between his thumb and forefinger as he reflects on what he’s written so far. It’s a jumbled, tangled mess of words and odd emotions so far, but in a way, it’s fitting. Odd words and odd emotions always spring up inside of the guitarist when he even begins to think about Roger, and seeing as this letter is supposed to tell him about all of these feelings… 

_I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m in love with you._

_Madly, deeply in love with you, and I have been ever since we met._

_Everytime I look at you, I see the epitome of perfection standing there with a smirk on his face and mischief in his eyes. I see an angel with beautiful blue eyes and gorgeous blonde hair, and everytime I touch you, I can’t quite grasp the idea that you’re real and I’m able to be your friend._

_Roger, everytime I look at you, I see the man I want to grow old and spend the rest of my life with._

_It sounds absolutely absurd. It is absurd. I don’t see why you would want the same with me._

He frowns at his sudden bout of self-depreciation and scribbles it out with his ink pen, the long lines of blue distracting from the rest of the words on the paper.

_I don’t really know how to describe it. You’re just… everything I want in a person and more. You’re handsome, you’re charming, you’re hilarious and you’re smart (when you want to be, anyway), and your grand personality never fails to brighten up a room. Even when you scream at me over moving your shoes from one side of the room to the other, I still find myself smitten by you. You make me want to rip my hair out sometimes, and the dryness of your sarcasm is almost enough to make me want to slap your smirks off of your face— I still find myself in love with you._

_I’ve loved you through the times we spent together with Tim, drinking cheap beers and laughing at all the late-night crap on the telly. I’ve loved you through the days we screamed our throats raw during band practices, and the nights we ended up reconciling over leftover chinese. Somehow, my feelings are still strong after having Scrabble tiles stuck in my hair and poking out my eyes!_

_Having loved you for so long from afar, I want to be able to move forward and love you through the rest of our days, regardless of how they start and end._

_I want to love you through your brightest days. The days you walk into a room with a huge grin on your face and start making tasteless jokes that manage to make everyone else laugh. The days you fire-off witty, snarky remarks while you tease someone. The days you proudly walk around like nothing can touch you and anything that tries to will burn, for you shine brighter than the sun._

_I want to love you through your darker days. The days you shut all of us out with little to no explanation at all and curse and scream at us to leave you alone. The days I hear you sneaking outside at odd hours of the night and not returning until much, much later, stinking up the house with a smell that can only be described as the entire liquor-stock of our local store. The days you burn through an entire pack of cigarettes to try and get rid of whatever you’re feeling._

_I want to love you regardless of the consequences. I want to love you even if it means we will have to hide our affections from the public eye for the sake of safety. I want to love you even if I know you have the power to reduce me to tears and break my heart in an instant._

_I want to love you forever more._

_Roger, my love for you is greater than my love of boring you with my post-show astrophysics lessons. It’s greater than John’s odd fascination with ejaculation and sex in general (I know— how prudish of me to say, you twat). It’s greater than Freddie’s love for belting out notes at three in the morning when he knows we’re all asleep. It might ever be greater than your love for that new Alfa Romeo!_

_Okay. Yes._

“Okay. Yes.”? God, Roger will think this disaster of a letter to be some kind of sick prank.

_Roger Meddows Taylor, I love you, and this was my… shitty attempt of expressing it to you. I completely understand if this weirds you out, but… I had to get this off my chest instead of continuing to hold off on it for god knows how long._

_Forever yours,_

_Brian._

The brunette exchanges his pen for the sheet of paper, bringing it a bit closer to him as he begins to read over everything he’s scribbled onto it. Hazel eyes drift over a sea of blue ink dozens of times, scrutinizing every single word scribbled upon the paper. It’s a bit manic and all over the place to his overly-critical mind, though he could not find it within himself to rewrite it. Seeing as it had taken him the better half of the afternoon to even _begin_ putting his feelings into thoughts, thoughts into words and words to paper, Brian wasn’t too keen on redoing this ‘love letter’.

He gives it another once-over, begrudgingly folding it up and placing it inside of an envelope. He writes Roger’s name on it with his non-dominant hand in a feeble attempt to disguise who was the sender of the letter, his desperation to remain anonymous that he writes that it was sent by his “secret santa”. It’s not exactly a lie, seeing as the band was, in fact, doing secret santa this year (and Brian had been lucky enough to get Roger), though… he still felt quite pathetic as he grabbed a small piece of tape and attached the letter to one of the presents he had gotten the blonde.

—

“I’ll tell you, this might just be the loveliest robe I’ve ever seen!” Freddie beams, happily holding it up so that the others could see the clothing in question. It’s a gorgeous silk robe with gold accents and the head of a calico cat over the right breast. Brian stares at it in amazement, suddenly feeling embarrassed with his gifts that all pale in comparison to such a novelty. “Thank you to my dearest secret santa!”

“No problem, Fred. I saw it one morning when I passed by that stall run by that one dodgy old lady… it’s the one we said bore a striking resemblance to Deaky?” John’s face reddens as he sends the blonde and noirette sharp, questioning looks. Roger blows a raspberry and dismisses John with a lazy flick of the wrist. “Yeah, I tried to talk her into giving it to me for cheap. She was kind enough to send me on my way without the robe, so of course, I nicked it from her when she wasn’t looking. Only the best gift for my best mate!”

Brian bites the inside of his cheek, feeling even lamer now that he knows Roger was the one who had given Freddie that extravagant (stolen) robe. 

“Your turn, Brimi! Get on with it, yeah? I’d like to rip into my pile as soon as I can,” says Roger, an easy smile on his face. The brunette wishes he could look as carefree and happy as Roger, especially since it’s _Christmas!,_ though he finds keeping a worried frown off of his face to be a struggle big enough to distract from even trying to look happy. He looks at the small pile of presents at his feet.

Like everyone else, his pile consists of five presents, though unlike everyone else, his pile seems to be the least interesting by far. Every gift is small and somewhat block-ish, none of them giving the hint of being even the slightest bit interesting. Discouraged by such a display, he offers for Roger to open his presents first.

“But he lost Scrabble last night, darling! I thought it was agreed upon that the order of opening would go based on the results!” Freddie whined, earning a swift slap on the thigh from John, who sat right beside him on the couch. He scowls at the brunette who merely shrugs.

“Consider us even, seeing as you compared me to an old lady, you rotter. Besides, you’ve already opened up all of your gifts, what’s the harm in Roger going next?” asks John, an accusatory note in his voice. Brian bites back his laughter at the couple, knowing Freddie would be grilled over the lady at the stalls later on in the night. 

“It’s Roger, that’s the harm!”

Roger gasps, outraged. “Oi! I risked my life stealing from that old wench, and you can’t even let me go before Brian, who even offered to let me go first!” 

“Fred, I offered to let him go. It’s the season of being kind or whatever, so how about we just shut up and let him rip into his gifts, yeah?” says Brian, giving Freddie a pointed look. The noirette dramatically throws himself back onto the sofa, animatedly slinging an arm around his boyfriend’s shoulder and huffs something about _the holidays being a season of unfairness._ John chuckles and leans over to plant a small kiss on Freddie’s cheek; it’s a display that makes Brian’s heart leap in envy and desire, desperately wanting to have that level of domesticity with Roger.

The same Roger who, he remembers, will be opening his gifts and reading his letter sometime within the next twenty minutes. Regrets regarding letting the blonde open his gifts begin to flood his mind, realizing he will be unable to hide himself in an odd corner of the flat for the rest of the night, instead, having to linger and open his presents while the fate of his heart rests in Roger's hands. A pang of nausea shoots through him— how could he have been foolish enough to forget so soon about this stupid love letter? How could he have been foolish enough to dig himself an even deeper grave? 

Nervously, Brian watches as Roger picks out a gift, looks at who gave it to him and set it back down with a wink and a smile in his direction. "Saving the best for later," he explains simply before returning his attention to the other four presents, not at all noticing the way Brian's cheeks light up in a dozen shades of pink and red. 

The blonde finally settles on a brown paper bag with crudely-drawn snowflakes and snowmen decorating it. He looks over at John, who offers him a sheepish smile in response.

"Maybe you should leave the drawing to Fred, Deaks." Roger quips, stifling a giggle when the brunette's ears blushed a bright red.

Carelessly, the blonde dumped the contents of the bag out onto his lap, grinning as he saw a dozen small items tumble out into his lap. Brian frowns upon seeing a pocket lighter and a few packs of cigarettes amongst all of the mess, biting back the urge to scold John for encouraging Roger's smoking habits and warn the latter against using them. 

More carefully this time, Roger picks up each item one by one and shows them off, a large grin adorning his face all the while. With each item the blonde displays, the brunette feels his frown soften and his heart ache even more for Roger. 

It's an odd assortment of gifts that only _Roger_ would be happy to receive: new shoelaces for his ratty pair of glittery Converse, roughly eighty pence in loose change, the cigarettes and lighter, multicoloured pens, his favourite brand of (cheap) tea, and a few bags of his favourite crisps. "Thank you, Deaky! God, Fred, Bri… you two have a lot to live up to if this is how we're starting things off," he exclaims, haphazardly sweeping everything out of his lap and back into the bag.

"Raise your expectations then, darling. Open mine next," says Freddie with a good-natured roll of his eyes, "It's the one with the big bow on top."

"Of course it is."

"Don't wreck it, please. I spent ages trying to—"

Before Freddie could even finish his sentence, the flat was filled with a deafening _rip!_ as Roger tore into the present with a complete disregard for however long it took the singer to get it wrapped. The drummer made quite a show of the task, digging his nails into the paper and messily ripping it off, sending patterned pieces of greens floating down onto the ground. He ends up revealing a box, though, he seems to have the same amount of regard for it as he had the gift wrap as he throws the lid in Freddie's general direction, hitting John on the knee.

Freddie laughs at his boyfriend's pain, earning himself another slap on the thigh. His smile quickly turns into a grimace.

"Oh, Fred!" Exclaims Roger, pulling some sort of overwear out of the box. Freddie's grimace melted back into his cheshire-like grin upon seeing Roger's reaction; Brian nearly flinches away from the sight of the garment, the pit of doubt and worry in his stomach growing as he feels less and less confident in not only the gifts he chose, but the reception of the letter. In the blonde's hands is a striking navy blazer with white patterns decorating it. It's undoubtedly _Roger,_ Brian finds, drinking in the way his bright blonde locks seem to be punctuated by the deep blue.

He finds his point proven further when the blonde stands up, tosses off his shirt (Brian makes a _very_ conscious effort to look away from his bare chest, not wanting his blood to flow anywhere below his cheeks) and slips the blazer on, giving a little twirl and a bow when Freddie gives him a wolf-whistle. “I love it! It’s… it’s the one that lady with the Brian hair had on display at her stall, isn’t it?” 

That causes Brian to look at Roger, though, his outrage melts into regret the moment he feels his face begin to burn up. The dark colour stands out against his milky-white skin and golden hair and clings to his figure in all the right ways— it's enough to drive Brian absolutely _mad_. 

“I’m sorry, the lady with what? Could you and Fred stop using John and I to identify the other vendors at the market?” he chokes out, hoping they would think he was antsy due to embarrassment. 

Mischievous blue eyes meet hazel. “It’s much faster and easier to understand than ‘the lady with the curly brown hair, scary smile and massive ti—‘“

“Oh, shove it Rog, I think you’ve scared our Brian enough for one day,” Freddie interjects, giving Brian a knowing wink. 

Brian scowls. “Don’t even remind me, Freddie. Rog, go ahead and open my gift next.”

“Yeah, save the secret santa for last, that’ll just turn out great.”

“Will you two shut up?” Brian gives the couple on the couch a look, causing them to erupt into a fit of giggles. Roger observes the scene, confused.

Freddie and John were the ones who had suggested the idea of the letter to him in the first place, and they had been over the moon to find out Brian had decided to actually go ahead and do it. Brian himself still couldn’t believe that he had gone through with it, the entire situation seeming even more surreal as Roger hesitantly pushes aside the ‘secret’ present in favour of grabbing the one clearly addressed to him from Brian.

He tears it open with the same amount of care he had with Freddie’s gift, eliciting a pained groan from the noirette. “Would it kill you to not absolutely decimate one gift?” he asks, miffed by the way the blonde savagely rips apart all of the wrapping paper until he reveals the present underneath, raising a brow at it.

“I think I want to destroy this one, actually. A textbook? Really Bri?” asks Roger, a frown on his face. Brian ignores the hurt on his face, instead shrugging his shoulders, “I remember you complained about missing a textbook for one of your courses. Besides, Freddie and John have both gotten you some exciting gifts. Someone has to keep you grounded and sensible.”

“I’ll show you grounded and sensible!” Roger hisses in response, brows furrowed as he throws the textbook across the room at Brian. He isn’t strong enough to do so successfully, though, as it ends up landing on the coffee table and pathetically sliding across it, displacing all of the rubbish in it’s path. The blonde rolls his eyes in irritance at the melodrama before he picks up the secret santa gift, tearing it open with one swift flick of the wrist and spilling its contents out onto his lap.

Brian hopes the present in there is enough to make Roger’s anger subside. He would hate to get rejected _and_ slapped in the face due to _two_ lame Christmas—

Roger’s face softens immediately at the bar of chocolate and drumsticks in his lap, holding the latter up and twisting them around to observe them. “Oh, my god! These are the lyrics to ‘Blag’, aren’t they?” he exclaimed with a grin, eyes glittering, “Brian, how could you even afford these?”

“First of all, how do you know I got them for you? Secondly, I saved up some money where I could.”

“You’re the only one who knows how proud I am of that stupid song, you dunce!”

Brian considers this. “Touché. I can forget how smart you can be sometimes, Rog.”

“Oi! Watch it before I poke your eyes out with these!”

“I don’t want to be as blind as you, so, no thank you, Roger,” Brian retorts. The blonde surrenders at that, flopping back into his armchair. He glances down at the discarded wrapping paper and sees the light-blue envelope taped onto the front of it, grinning. He picks it up and quirks a brow.

“Did you have a stroke when you wrote this? Why is your writing so… shaky?” he quizzes.

“Don’t worry about it,” replies the guitarist, biting the inside of his cheek as he watches Roger tear open the envelope and unfurl the letter. Blue eyes begin to squint and scrutinize every stroke and line upon the paper, each passing second causing worry to grow in the brunette. 

Freddie and John get up to go to the kitchen and busy themselves with making more hot chocolate, though, Brian knows they want to remain within earshot of the upcoming conversation. 

Suddenly, Roger begins to laugh.

Brian's heart sinks at the same sound which normally makes his heart soar. "What?'

"I can't believe this, Brian," says the blonde after he regains his composure, "I hate you."

"What?" Brian repeats, eyes wide. 

Freddie gasps from somewhere in the kitchen, only to be shushed immediately afterward by John.

"Jesus, Bri, you can't be serious. We've been friends for years, and you think you can just turn around and pull a stunt like this?"

His heart is pounding loud in his ears, and he feels like he's drowning. How could he have been so foolish to believe Roger would ever be into men, let alone him?

"I'm sorry," Brian croaks out, tears threatening to spill from his eyes. His breathing grows quick and shallow, suddenly finding it hard to breathe.

"You'd better be! My gift to you was a dinner reservation at that place down the street you like, and now I just feel like a huge idiot for getting completely upstaged by your letter!" Roger cries, dashing across the room to Brian, a smile playing on his lips. Brian shakes his head.

"Roger, I get it, you don't return the feeling. You don't have to fill me with false hope after you just tore me down," he whispers, tears finally beginning to slip from his eyes. Feeling smaller than he ever has, he shuts his eyes, not wanting to face Roger after making a complete fool of himself.

He squints through his teary-haze when he feels Roger begin to brush away his tears, and he's just able to make out the way Roger's brows have creased in worry. 

"Brian, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have reacted like that. It was a joke, and you know how much of an arse I can be when I joke around. That letter was the most beautiful thing I've ever read, and I'm flattered to hear all the things you think of me, and I'm over the moon to hear that you want all of… that with me. I want to spend my life with you too, okay? I know I'm a right prick sometimes, and—"

Brian pecks Roger on the lips, effectively shutting up the blonde. Roger's cheeks become dusted with a light pink, his blue eyes growing misty and his face bearing a dazed expression; Brian decides _that_ is the most beautiful look he's ever seen him wear.

"You always want me to shut up when I get going, so it was only fair."

He glances back at Freddie and John, who are grinning; the latter gives Brian a thumbs-up.

With a confident grin, Brian says: "What about that dinner reservation you mentioned?"

"Read the card I got you. I didn't write it with a broken wrist."

**Author's Note:**

> merry christmas folks :)  
> (also, i should mention that blag is a song that roger wrote back in the smile era!)


End file.
